


Infringement

by wss_holmes



Series: Connected [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Post His Last Vow, Soulmate AU, Soulmate identifying bracelets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 10:55:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3065219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wss_holmes/pseuds/wss_holmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's about to depart on the plane, now what does John do? Stop Sherlock, or stop himself?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Infringement

**Author's Note:**

> Infringement is the second and final fic in the Connected series. Please don't read out of order!

And there it was, that familiar gait striding away one last time. The footfalls on the pavement, the rubber sole colliding with the path leading to his death. John had to absorb it all, every last detail down to the very last second, just for a memory. His eyes danced over his fleeting figure, gliding over cloth and the skin pushing against it, muscles tensing and relaxing underneath. Like that was their purpose, his gaze simply meant to dance over shoulders, arms, skin, even to the veins resting underneath, road maps under his skin. Head to toe. The mess of a head Sherlock called his hair. John noticed that in the summertime, the black locks would curl themselves up more. The bright and warm energy of the season giving them life and making them spring upwards. John's light and casual mention of this obviously brought odd looks and rude barks from the man. He was often reminded by him that "my hair does not have a cat's libido, it doesn't perk up when the flowers do." John knew immediately that he might miss the snappy and clever (although rude) retorts to the smallest of things. And goodness, now here on the Tarmac, Sherlock had his collar upturned. Deduction after deduction brought his fingers to the tweed, flipping up the collar from muscle memory. To the rest of the world, meaningless gesture. To John, it meant everything. Deep in thought, thinking about some case or another. If that wasn't the situation, it was a method of hiding. This brought a countless number of profuse declinations and stinging retaliations against John, though his theory did still ring true. Much to Sherlock's opposition, it was in fact a way of hiding. And John saw it often. Date nights out with Sarahs and Jacquelines, Baileys and Amys, John had come to Sherlock and that black fabric pressed against his cheek. Whether he was sitting in his chair, knees to chest, laying on the floor, and even packed tightly on top of the mantel, his thighs pressed to the wall, Sherlock wore that coat on John's date nights without fail. Hiding, defense, shutting down. A calm composure in which nothing could get past. As if the blackened wool of the collar created some kind of dam against his emotions. John could hardly tell from this distance if it was working, or if the dam had collapsed in on itself in a daring flood of quivering lips and half-sobs. The dam was doing its job. John's eyes flitted their way down without remorse to his waist, somewhat hidden behind that wall of black tweed. His body, the whole of it, a beautiful piece of work, but his waist was the crescendo of it all. An intricate hour glass, dipping in towards itself only to glide back out to its original form. Smooth and delicate and clean. Countless hours staring at him in blazers that cut inward to form a band of restricted skin before cutting back out again. Clean-cut and beyond the definition of stunning. Dreaded were the days when John couldn't help but notice that one loose thread, detached from everything, on the small of his back. That feeling always bloomed deep in John's chest to just reach his hand out and brush it away, to press his fingertips flush against the black blazer, to just keep it there, keep his hand right there because it felt like it was supposed to be there. On the small of his back, that gentle warmth from Sherlock pushing through the fabric and reaching John's hand. He wanted to see, to check, one last time to see if Sherlock had a tiny thread down where his spine curved. The wall, that black Belstaff wall blocked everything. John's hope of a comforting gesture was ripped from him in an instant. There was no point in stopping now, John's gaze fell to hopelessly admire his legs. Each muscle moving in unison to create the perfect working system. Contract, relax, contract, relax. Long and sinewy, yet almost always out of view, excluding those rare (and cherished) moments when he would strut from his bedroom cocooned in a sheet. Like the man has no shame. And while John tried to let memories fade and old laughter die out, he remembered that a small reminder loomed on his wrist. That bracelet, that god damned bracelet that drove its ugly claws into the already-stinging wound. But John had been trapped in his mind for too long, just long enough to only catch the tail of Sherlock's coat disappear into the plane. A vaguely sympathetic-looking Mycroft stood at the bottom of the steps, staring at John who was staring at the plane. Clever words nor charming smile could eradicate the deep-set look of horror on John's face. His thoughts made leaps and bounds as they tried to discern what to do, how to move, what to think. The stairs pull away from the plane. What does one do without a soulmate? Plane door shuts. Isn't that the purpose of life? Roaring engines. To find someone to spend it with? Without being consciously aware of his actions, John takes a step back, watching as the plane slowly makes its way down the Tarmac. Wait. No. Stop. The words trap themselves in his throat, blocked by his own sense of defeat. That voice in the back of his head that told him to accept his fate, and only a miracle could bring down that plane. In no time, the plane is barreling down the Tarmac and is lifted into the air. Wheels lose contact with the earth. And that was it. All disappearance of hope, the crushing of the final "maybe". With a heavy heart, John slowly turned towards Mycroft, whose presence had a detached air, with some sentiment lingering underneath. He too, was upset at Sherlock's departure, but damned if he would ever admit it. 

"It looks like you've discovered his little cherished secret," Mycroft said, with an odd carefulness.

John felt the bracelet burning into his wrist. "It's none of your damn business."

"In fact, it is," Mycroft retorted. "My brother has never been a sentimental individual. But, for four minutes, I am certain he is the most emotional person to live right now."

John shifted his posture, unsettled by Mycroft's words. Four minutes? Damn him and his double meanings, hidden insults, and whatever other mind tricks he's got tucked up his sleeve. 

John regathered himself quickly. "What the hell do you mean 'most emotional'?"

Shame and guilt crossed Mycroft's face as he pulled it in downwards. With slow and careful hands, he reached into his breast pocket and removed one black band, with a shining golden plate atop it. 

"He gave it to me, before he boarded," Mycroft explained, lifting his eyes to once again meet John's. "It has your name on it, Mister Soulmate..."

Slow down. Breath leaves automatically. No inhale, just one massive exhale. But quiet. Silent. Punch to the stomach. Kick to the left breast plate. Empty space in between the ears. No thought. Mouth trying to figure out something to say without guidance. Limbs, numb and moving although they lack proper instruction. Second kick to the breast plate, a slap to the face. 

Time passes, rolling perpetually on, despite the news. In fact, everything continues. The engine roar continues to fade away slowly each second. Mycroft continues to stand before John, the black bracelet dangling precariously over his right index and middle fingers. Like a taunt he cannot stop. 

"I was instructed to give it to you," Mycroft said quietly as he stepped forward to close the gap between them. "With a message."

John slid the bracelet off of his fingers, turning the plate up to the sky, seeing the golden imprint of 'John' there. Just as he had remembered it, only five minutes ago. 

After a moment of pure enchantment from the bracelet, John looked up to Mycroft. "A message?"

"Sherlock told me to relay something to you. 'A man's whole life may go unremembered, and yet his final act may define it.'"

"...W–... How am I supposed to make sense of that?" John stammered, his eyes snapping up to Mycroft. 

There is an unspoken connection between the two men as their gazes meet. Mycroft's eyes fall to his watch, then move back to John. 

"Four minutes," he declares in solemn ceremonial fashion. 

His eyes raise to the sky behind John, a look of well-hidden abject horror sketched into his features. John's neck can't turn fast enough to see the first explosion, only hear the deafening boom accompanying it. Streaks of red and orange stain the blue background of sky like a disturbing canvas painting. A second boom rings out from the plane's engine, a billow of menacing gray smoke spewing tail-end and highlighting the flames. The descent of the jet begins, just as soon as the explosions do. Smoke and flames twist together in a disgusting braid of death. And from the commotion, the chaos, the graphic images, something caught John's attention as he watched on. Something falls away from the plane, jet black. The entire object, it's jet black. The engine may–... No. No no no. It's not in a box shape. The shape is too irregular for that. No. Oh God no. It's not falling fast enough to be an engine. An engine weighs a lot, this... thing... must weigh only... No. Shape. Size. Weight. No. God no. Please no. Within seconds, both plane and blackened object have struck the ground, thousands of yards away from where John and Mycroft remain, almost unable to stomach the thought of what had just occurred. But Mycroft knew. He always knew. 

A long moment passes, where not a word is said. John struggles to breathe, only managing to do so in choppy spurts. His posture only sinks lower when he thinks he's going to vomit on to the Tarmac. 

Mycroft's voice pierces the air, where only the distant crackling of fire lives. "Rigged. Plane..." He explains simply, and quietly. "The other few passengers aboard were undercover running from the government after escaping a death row execution. They were too sneaky to be properly caught. Bomb on board... We needed someone to see that it was detonated... And that criminals were brought to justice. Sherlock... my brother... was the hero who sought to it." With these final words, Mycroft lets his head fall, unable to watch the flames burn on and lick up into the sky. 

But John's stare never leaves the wreckage. Mouth agape and tears spilling downwards to crash with the earth, a mimicry of the plane. His hands lose their stressed and balled up tightness, as he lets the last connection between Sherlock Holmes and him slip between his fingers. Black leather tumbles over gold plating. A small ringing of the metal reaches their ears as the bracelet hits the pavement. 'Heroes don't exist,' he would say. 'If they did, I wouldn't be one of them.' John Watson, soulmate to Sherlock Holmes, disagrees. Sherlock Holmes, soulmate to John Watson, died a dirty liar. Because a man's whole life may go unremembered, and yet his final act may define it.


End file.
